Sing The Bells
by Lily McKenzie -AND- Cody Zik
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Shiro has lived within the bell tower of Notre Dame under the care of Judge Aizen. Everything changes one day when he ventures out of his sanctuary, his world turned upside down. Allied with a kind-hearted gypsy and a headstrong captain, Shiro must overcome his differences and face his greatest obstacle yet.
1. Prologue

**Alright! My first story is up and running! **

**Before reading, understand that this story is a re-telling of Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" with Bleach characters injected into the story line. That being said, what's written here will be heavily based on the movie scenes and dialogue. You should recognize most of it.**

**Some general overall warnings: AU, OOC (but that's a given with AU, don't you think?), implied yaoi (yes, this will exist in the story; I'm not telling you where, though~), light language, little violence, yadayadayada. Everything you can expect from the original movie. Make sense? The current rating is T, but that might change depending on where the story goes.**

**On another note - I swear I'll get to the actual story! - I understand that _caribou. and. __cake_ has already done a very similar story to this entitled _"Le Diable Blanc de Notre Dame."_ I have read her version, and although our stories share multiple features (like character choice), my version will be different from hers. In other words, please don't say I copied her because in all honesty I haven't and don't plan on doing so any time in the future. **

**Now with that business taken care of, without further ado, I present to you: _Sing The Bells!_**

**I do not own Bleach. Such a shame really. I would have so much fun. **

* * *

**Sing The Bells**

**By Cody Zik**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**Prologue**

* * *

_"Now here is a riddle to guess if you can,"_

_Sing the bells of Notre Dame._

_"Who is the monster and who is the man?"_

_Sing the bells of Notre Dame!_

* * *

The sky glittered blue as the sun rose over the city of Paris. Even in the early hours, the city bustled with life as the people woke with the dawn. And that morning, as it was every morning, the resounding bells of the Notre Dame cathedral rang throughout the air. From bells as loud as the thunder to bells as soft as a psalm, the men and women carried the song in their hearts each day of their lives. Some would even say the soul of the city was the toll of the bells of Notre Dame.

Down in the streets children gathered around a wooden cart elaborately dressed with bright-colored curtains. A gypsy man stood behind his makeshift stage, his outfit matching the shimmering colors of the decorations and a gold hoop glittering in his ear. Despite the mask and hat that covered his features, ochre eyes glittered at the growing young audience.

As if on cue, the glorious sounds of the bells rang another tune as the gypsy began to speak.

"Listen, they're beautiful, no? So many colors of sounds, so many changing moods. But you know . . . " He paused as he leaned down close to the children. "They don't ring all by themselves." Suddenly, a puppet burst from the man's cloak, oddly matching the man exactly including chin-length blonde hair and ochre button eyes.

"They don't?!" squeaked the miniature clone.

"No, silly boy." The gypsy lifted back a curtain to reveal Notre Dame herself. "Up there, high, high, in the dark bell tower, lives the mysterious bell ringer." With another pause he turned back to the children. "Who is this creature?"

"Who?" echoed the puppet.

"What is he?"

"What?"

"How did he come to be there?"

"How?"

"Hush!" The gypsy silenced the puppet with a light smack that resulted in the children's giggles.

"Owhh . . ."

The gypsy shook his head lightly. A small mischievous smile made its home on his face as he said, "I will tell you. It's a tale, a tale of a man and a monster!"

* * *

Dark was the night as the bitter wind blew through the streets of Paris. Powdery snow lifted in the eerie silence, blanketing all it touched in cruel white. Even the light waves of the Seine made no noise as they brushed against the edges of the canals. A perfect night for secrets.

Moving slowly among the shadows, four figures huddled in a small boat as they slid silently under the docks near Notre Dame. Fear easily crept into their hearts, for they were gypsies and that simple fact made their life a living hell. The hooded boatman steered their vessel carefully across the water, watching and listening for a sign anything was amiss.

The cry of a baby shattered the silence of the night air. The boatman whipped his head around to glare at his passengers. Two men and a woman with panic-filled eyes stared down at the infant resting in the woman's arms. One man hovered closely to the woman, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder.

The other man wore a snarl. "Shut it up, will you! We'll be spotted!" he whispered harshly.

The woman nodded, rocking the infant gently in her arms. "Hush, little one," she softly murmured. The baby soon fell quiet listening to the woman's soothing voice. Once again plunged into silence, the boat rocked steadily in the water until it was safely docked.

"Four gilders for safe passage into Paris," said the boatman after the gypsies stepped out on to the street. But a trap had been laid for the gypsies, and even as one man reached for his satchel the clinking of armor echoed through the streets. Tension filled the air as several soldiers with swords drawn surrounded the small band of gypsies. At the sound of horse hooves their hearts plummeted as they gazed up in fear and alarm at a figure who rode a massive black stallion, whose clutches were iron as much as the bells of Notre Dame.

"Judge Sōsuke Aizen!"

Judge Sōsuke Aizen, the figure on the horse dressed in the black robes of the highest city officials, looked down at the gypsies with distaste. Despite his fine features, his cold and hollow brown eyes gave away his true nature. Judge Aizen longed to purge the world of vice and sin, and he saw corruption everywhere but within.

"Bring these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice," he order the soldiers. Without delay, the men were easily taken with shackles around their wrists and led off, leaving the woman alone to clutch her bundle against her chest.

"You there! What are you hiding?" a soldier called, attempting to grab her.

"Stolen goods, no doubt," Aizen stated. "Take them from her."

She ran.

Through the narrow streets she went, desperation guiding her footsteps, kicking snow into the air around her Close behind, Judge Aizen gave chase on horseback and gained distance with every stride. A flicker of hope appeared in the woman's vision: the towering silhouette of Notre Dame. She rushed up the steps to the cathedral's heavy wooden doors, her pounding on the door echoing the rapid beating of her heart.

"Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!" she cried out.

But the doors did not open and left the woman to the shadows. Pure terror seized her whole being as she turned to face Aizen, the judge ripping the covered bundle from her arms. However, the woman refused to let go and so Aizen kicked her, sending her crashing to the cathedral's steps. A terrible crack rang throughout the air as her head connected with harsh stone, and then she was still.

The bundle now in Aizen's arms began to cry "A baby?" he asked aloud, pushing back the cloth to uncover the infant. The small face that peered back at him was as white as the snow that covered the streets. And the eyes! Eyes like golden fire caught in a sea of black. Aizen let out a strangled gasp. "A monster!"

Cold brown eyes flickered about, searching until they rested upon a well, a solution forming with disturbing ease Without a hesitant thought, Aizen guided his horse to the well and lifted the infant above the deep and freezing water. He was about to drop it when -

"Stop!" cried the archdeacon.

Aizen turned, arm still stretched over the well, to see Notre Dame's archdeacon descend the steps. He wore a stony expression with piercing indigo eyes.

"This is an unholy demon," Aizen stated, as if it was nothing. "I'm sending it back to hell, where it belongs."

The archdeacon's face gave no emotion as he knelt to gather the gypsy woman's body in his arms. "See, there, the innocent blood you have spilt on the steps of Notre Dame," he said, his voice a quiet rumble but in no way soft or gentle.

"I am guiltless - she ran, I pursued," Aizen defended. The archdeacon's eyes narrowed at the answer.

"Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt?"

"My conscience is clear!" snapped Aizen. Without realizing his actions, he brought the baby back to the safety of his arms.

"You can lie to yourself and your minions; you can claim that you haven't a qualm. But you never can run, nor hide what you've done from the eyes." The archdeacon lifted a hand and pointed to the cathedral above him. "The very eyes of Notre Dame!"

Aizen's gaze rose to the countless statues of saints and angels carved into the walls of Notre Dame. Stone eyes seemed to capture each and every last moment in their gaze, watching the actions that transpired below. His own eyes widened, and for one time in his life of power and control, Aizen felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul, suppressing the urge to shudder.

"What must I do?" he asked the archdeacon, who now stood with the gypsy woman's body in his arms.

"Care for the child, raise it as your own," came the reply as the man turned back to the wooden doors.

"What?" Aizen snapped again. "I'm to be saddled with this hideous - " He paused as a sudden thought crept across his face. "Very well. Let him live with you, in your church."

"Live here?" the archdeacon questioned, turning slightly. "But where?"

"Anywhere. Just so he's locked away where no one else can see," Aizen said, scanning the massive cathedral before him. The shadowy columns that housed the city's sound caught his eye. "The bell tower, perhaps."

He glanced down at the baby in his arms. He spoke again, low enough that the archdeacon would not hear. "And who knows - our Lord works in mysterious ways. Even this foul creature may yet prove one day to be of use to me."

And Aizen gave the child a cruel name. A name that reflected his pale skin and hair, a name that meant "white."

Shiro.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think, please? **


	2. Life's Not A Spectator Sport

**It's the moment you've all been waiting for! **

**_TA-DA!_ I present to you the next chapter of Sing The Bells! I hope this chapter is just as satisfying as the last.**

**Onward . . . !**

**EDIT: Whoops! I made some mistakes with this last chapter, but they've been fixed. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Life's Not A Spectator Sport**

* * *

The bells of Notre Dame rocked steadily back and forth as they rang a greeting to the day. Sunlight poured through the bell tower, casting amazing shadows and capturing the slim figure of the bell ringer as he conducted the morning song. He gave one last strong pull on the rope before using it to slide down to the floor below. He landed solidly on his feet, scaring the pigeons about the floor into flight. Following the sunlight, the bell ringer straightened and walked onto the balcony that overlooked the city square.

A light breeze danced across the young man's porcelain skin, tousling his ivory hair. Clad in dark tunic and hose that contrasted greatly with his pale complexion, the bell ringer leaned against the balcony railing between two gargoyles. Eyes of black and gold immediately landed on a bird's nest atop the one gargoyle's head. The little bird within began to stir.

"Good morning," Shiro whispered, his silvery voice gentle and soft. The bird perked up at the sound of his voice and chirped a happy greeting. Shiro gave a small, rare smile. "Will today be the day?" he asked, voice still soft. "Are you ready to fly?"

The bird immediately shrank back into the nest. A nervous squeak came from the ruffle of feathers. Ashen brows rose slightly but the smile didn't fade. "You sure? Good day to try," said Shiro. He gently lifted the bird from its comfy nest, holding it carefully as they peered over the edge of the wide balcony railing. People hurried about the square below, appearing like ants as they scurried across the cobblestone streets. Small wooden structures were being erected before them which would soon be clothed in bright banners and cloths. "The Feast of Fools." At the mention of the festival, a slight frown marred Shiro's features but it quickly disappeared. "It will be fun," he said, bouncing the bird lightly in his hands, "with jugglers, and music, and dancing . . ."

Shiro trailed off as the bird began to flap its wings from the encouragement and hover in the air above his hands. He slowly pulled his hands back with a small chuckle. The bird turned at the sound and noticed the man's hands, quickly realizing it was flying. It trilled with excitement as Shiro chuckled again. He held out his hands in which the bird landed with a soft _plop._ A flock of birds briskly flew past the two; the little bird chirped excitedly at the sight and turned back to Shiro.

"Go on," he said, softly running a finger down the bird's back. "Nobody wants to be cooped up here forever." The bird warbled its gratitude to the albino, lifting from the man's hands once more. It sang its farewell as it joined the other birds in the sky. Shiro let out a small sigh as he watched the little bird disappear, any trace of his smile vanishing like the bird.

The quiet moment ended abruptly as the same gargoyle burst to life. "Oh man!" A male voice tumbled from the previously inanimate stone figure. He began to shake his lanky carved limbs wildly. "I thought that bird would never leave! I'll be sore for a week!" he complained, lifting the bird's nest from his head and tossing it away. A scowl etched its way into Shiro's features. He returned to leaning against the railing, resting his chin on folded arms, and peered down at the decorated square below. Anything to ignore the annoying gargoyle.

"Well, that's what you get for sleeping in weird positions, Pesche. You look like a tree," rumbled another voice. The gargoyle from Shiro's opposite side, Dondochakka, had awoken as well. _Oh, joy._

Shiro fought the urge to roll his eyes at the comment. _He's one to talk._ Both gargoyles insisted on perching on the balcony in the most ridiculous poses. Dondochakka at least looked like a normal gargoyle despite his overly wide and round shape. Pesche, however, with a slender frame and pointed snout, arms outstretched, easily resembled a tree branch.

Pesche let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Go scare a nun," he muttered. The lanky gargoyle's attention turned to the pale man between them. "Hey, what're you watching there, Shiro?" He clacked across the stone as he hopped closer to the albino, trying to look over his shoulder. "A fight? A flogging?"

"A festival!" burst Dondochakka, marveling at the number of tents and booths littering the square.

"You mean the Feast of Fools?!" Pesche exclaimed. Stone eyes seemed to spark with mischief.

"Yup," Shiro answered dryly, adding a _pop_ at the end.

"Alright, alright!" Pesche rubbed his hands together in anticipation

"It's always treat to watch the colorful pageantry of the simple peasant folk," Dondochakka added. Pesche just shook his head at the comment.

Both gargoyles leaned farther over the balcony edge, straining to see what the growing festival had to offer. An amazing rainbow of colors – navy and gold, fuchsia and red, violet and jade – assaulted their eyes and dominated the bland colors of stone and wood. Ropes dressed with flags and banners draped from the many buildings and tents like heavy vines. The few tents Shiro saw earlier had multiplied before them, decorating the square with their vibrancy and abundance of golden suns. Additional clusters of people attracted by the festival began to crowd in the square. Among them, Shiro could see beside the many Parisians numerous amounts of men and women dressed to match the festival's colors – gypsies. "Nothing like balcony seats for watching the ol' F.O.F., eh, Shiro?" Pesche said over his shoulder.

Shiro rose from his place. "Yeah, watching." Disinterest laced his voice as he turned back to the inner loft of the bell tower.

The gargoyles, caught off guard by the comment, quickly looked to each other and then to Shiro just in time to see the man walk away.

"Hey, hey! What gives?"

"Aren't you going to watch the festival with us?"

The questions were answered with silence. They shared a puzzled look.

"I don't get it," Pesche said, scratching his head.

"Perhaps he's sick!" gasped Dondochakka.

"Impossible."

The bright voice sounded behind them, and both turned to see yet another gargoyle hopping along the wide balcony railing. Wavy pale stone hair rested on petite shoulders. A delicate arm placed on her hip, the obviously well-endowed gargoyle gave the males a temperate look. Despite her tired expression, she could have easily passed as an angel with her beautiful features; a pleasant smile and bright personality even in the darkest times, Nelliel defied her demonic heritage. If not for the cracked skull and curling horns she wore on her head, the female gargoyle appeared as if she fell from the heavens. "If twenty years of listening to you two hasn't made him sick by now," she teased lightly, "nothing will."

"But Nel!" Dondochakka argued. "Watching the festival has always been the highlight of the year for Shiro."

Nelliel's face fell and she sighed. "What good is watching the party if you never get to go near it?" She hopped from the ledge and traced Shiro's footsteps into the loft. With a quick glance at each other, Pesche and Dondochakka followed closely behind.

The three gargoyles found Shiro sitting at a table covered in strewn papers. Sending a cautious glance to males, Nelliel slowly approached the albino from behind, catching a glimpse of the man's work. Each piece of parchment illustrated a different scene of Paris in bold charcoal; from the amazingly detailed architecture of the city to the picture-perfect views of the horizon, Shiro captured the sights he longed to experience flawlessly on paper. The most popular topic consisted of the everyday town's people as they went about their lives. There sat sketches of the baker and local fisherman, of young mothers with their children, of merchants and their customers. A couple pages even consisted of the gypsies dancing at the street corners. One piece caught Nelliel's eye more than the others. It was a portrait Shiro had drawn of himself, sitting alone in the bell tower, face down and away from the viewer. Nelliel sighed at the image and turned to the actual subject beside her.

Shiro scribbled away furiously at a – not for long – clean piece of parchment with a charcoal pencil in hand. Dark lines curved across the paper, smudging the surface when Shiro brushed against it and consequently turning the man's skin black. He pretended not to notice Nelliel's appearance.

"Shiro . . ." He continued to draw. "Shiro, what's wrong? Would you like to talk about it?" Nelliel placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

The pencil faltered in Shiro's hand for a moment before continuing across the paper. "I just don't feel like watching the festival, that's all."

"Well," Nelliel said slowly. "Did you ever think about going there instead?"

This time the pencil stopped completely. "Sure," Shiro said, irritation rising. Gold-on-black eyes glared pointedly at the female gargoyle. His lilting voice took on a flinty edge as he spoke. "But I'd never fit in down there. I'm not normal, as you very well know, and I have no wish to be stared at like some freak." He turned back to his sketch, a scowl planted firmly on his face.

"Oh, Shiro." Nelliel gave a light sigh. It was never hard to forget how judgmental the citizens of Paris could be.

"Hey, quit beating around the bell tower," Pesche said, approaching the table with Dondochakka. "What do we gotta do? Paint you a fresco?"

"As your friends and guardians, we insist you attend the festival," stated the other.

Shiro spun around, frown still in place. "What?"

"Of course!" chimed Pesche. Dondochakka nodded. "It would be a veritable educational experience."

"Never mind that!" exclaimed the lanky gargoyle. "Think of the wine, women, and song!"

"You can learn to identify various regional cheeses!"

"Bobbing for snails!"

"And the indigenous folk music."

"Playing dunk the monk!"

As the two gargoyles continued to rattle off their list of activities, Nelliel spoke again. "Listen, Shiro." The albino turned to her, the frown on his face lessening. _That's a good sign._ "Take it from an old spectator. Life's not a spectator sport. If watching's all you're going to, then you're going to watch your life go by without you." Shiro blinked at the wisdom, unsure of what to say.

"Yeah," Pesche said. Apparently the two had finished when the others weren't listening. "You're human, with the flesh, and the hair, and the navel lint." Ashen brows quirked at the odd statement. "We're just part of the architecture, right Dondochakka?"

Before the big gargoyle could speak, Nelliel quickly cut him off. "Look, Shiro, just grab a fresh tunic and a clean pair of hose and –"

"Thanks for the encouragement and all," Shiro interrupted. His voice sounded heavy as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But you're all forgetting one very important thing."

"What?" the gargoyles asked in unison.

Shiro quickly shuffled through the papers on his table before he held up the portrait of apathetic man. "My master, Aizen." Various dejected mutterings were the response at the mention of the name.

"Well, when he says you're forbidden from ever leaving the bell tower, does he mean 'ever ever?'" asked Dondochakka.

"Never ever." Shiro let out a frustrated sigh. He returned the sketch to the table, and then rested his arms across hosed legs. "And he hates the Feast of Fools. He'd be furious if I asked to go." He paused. "That is, _if_ I wanted to go." He quickly corrected himself.

A devilish smirk appeared across Pesche's face. "Who says you gotta ask?"

"No."

"You sneak out . . ." Pesche mimed with his fingers, ". . . And you sneak back in." Shiro was surprised to hear Nelliel add, "It's just one afternoon. He'll never know you were gone."

"If I got caught –"

Dondochakka broke in, "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission."

Shiro ran a hand across his face, instantly regretting it when he smeared the remnants of charcoal on his face. With a grimace, he wiped his face with the edge of his tunic and said, "He might see me."

"You could wear a disguise. Just this once. What Aizen doesn't know can't hurt you!" Pesche declared.

Nelliel placed a hand on Shiro's knee. He was met with serious stone eyes. "Nobody wants to be cooped up here forever."

Shiro closed his eyes as his own words drove into his heart. Truth was, Shiro was dying to leave the bell tower, or at least have the choice to come and go as he pleased instead of being trapped with the stone walls of the cathedral. He could really care less about what the people thought, just because his skin and hair were snow white and his eyes gold on black. He wanted to be free. Going to the festival didn't seem like such a bad idea. _Maybe . . ._ "Fine. I'll go."

A cheer echoed throughout the loft at the reply. Another rare smile appeared on Shiro's face –

"Good morning, Shiro."

– and instantly vanished.

* * *

**I hope that wasn't too short . . . I'm not sure how to feel about it . . .**

**I'd like to give a quick thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter, as well as those who favorited the story. Seeing that amazing kind of response for my first story was kinda awesome! ^^" **

**Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, please?**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**(And to be a good friend, I recommend checking out "The Highwayman" story also on our profile, written by Lily. It's too good to be ignored.)**


	3. Out There

**Finally! *sighs* I've completed the next chapter. I'm not entirely sure how to feel about it, though . . . **

**As a general warning for this chapter, there's going to be quite a bit of OOCness. I tried my best to capture a combination of Quasimodo's personality and Shiro's true nature, but we'll see how it all comes out. **

**Thank you for all the reviews from last chapter! I really like hearing what you all have to say! :)**

**Oh! ****The creeper Aizen of this chapter is dedicated to **_**Guardian of Winte****r**_**! Enjoy!**

**Onwards . . . !**

* * *

**Chapter 2: Out There**

* * *

At the top of the steps that led to the upper loft stood a brown-haired with cold brown eyes dressed in official robes. A small basket rested in the crook of his arm. The impassive expression he wore eerily matched the one of the man in the sketch Shiro held not moments ago.

"Good morning, master," came the flat greeting. Judge Sōsuke Aizen stepped further into the loft, eyeing the area with a slight hint of disgust. If not for years of seeing the man every day, Shiro never would have picked up on that detail.

"Dear boy, whomever are you talking to?" the judge asked mildly.

"My friends," Shiro answered easily. The gargoyles had instantly returned to their natural state once Aizen appeared. He couldn't blame them, really.

"I see." Aizen turned to an inanimate Dondochakka and rapped on his head. "And what are your friends made out of, Shiro?"

"Stone," Shiro deadpanned.

"Can stone talk?" Aizen pressed.

_I don't know, can it?_ Shiro bit back the retort in favor of a more mechanical response. "No, it can't."

A condescending smirk quickly flashed across the older man's face. "That's right. You're a smart lad. Now . . ." Aizen pulled a spare chair next to table Shiro sat at and seated himself. "Lunch." Another frown began to form on his face as Shiro stood from his chair and brushed his artwork aside. With automated motions, Shiro gathered two place settings from a nearby shelf, one of silver and one of wood. He laid the metal before the judge and sat once again with his own wooden set in front of him. Aizen began to distribute the contents of his basket, laying a small loaf of bread and cheese on Shiro's plate.

The albino was about to reach for them when Aizen lightly grabbed his wrist. Gold eyes flicked up cautiously. Aizen gave him a lukewarm smile and retrieved a white handkerchief from his robes. He gently began to wipe the smudges of charcoal from Shiro's face, much to the younger man's surprise. Ignoring the wide eyes that stared back at him, Aizen marveled at the vision of loveliness before him. _How things have changed. Who would have thought such an evil creature could be so beautiful?_ After a moment, Shiro jerked back with a wary frown; he certainly didn't like the look in his master's eyes just then.

Despite the harsh reaction, Aizen's smile stayed in place. The handkerchief now soiled with charcoal disappeared back into his robes, and he began to pouring wine into his chalice. "Shall we review your alphabet today?"

Shiro all but growled his answer. "Yes, master. I would like that very much."

"Very well." Aizen produced a book, opening it and laying it across his lap. "A?"

"Abomination."

"B?"

"Blasphemy."

"C?"

"Contrition."

"D?"

"Damnation."

"E?"

"_Eternal_ damnation," Shiro answered with a smirk.

"Good," Aizen said, lifting his chalice to take a drink. "F?"

"Festival," Shiro said without thinking. Only when Aizen spit out his drink did he realize what he'd said.

"What?"

"Forgiveness," Shiro attempted to recover.

"You said festival," the judge said, using one ringed hand on the table's edge to push himself to his feet. "You are thinking about going to the festival."

"And so what if I was?" retorted Shiro. "You go every year."

"I am a public official; I must go!" Aizen stated as if the reason was obvious. "But I don't enjoy a moment. Thieves and hustlers and the dregs of humankind, all mixed together in a shallow, drunken stupor." When Shiro remained silent, Aizen continued.

"Shiro, can't you understand? When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child, anyone else would have drowned you. And this is my thanks for taking you in and raising you as my son?"

Shiro's lip curled at the mention of his mother. The one person who was supposed to love him above all else, as Judge Aizen told him, had immediately left him upon seeing his inhuman features. He glared at the floor, avoiding the cold brown gaze of his master.

"My dear Shiro, you don't know what it's like out there. I do. I do . . ." Aizen said softly, as if what he said brought him sadness and pain. Shiro heard the scrape of a chair and the man's footsteps as he approached him. "The world is cruel. The world is wicked. It is I alone whom you can trust in this whole city. I am your only friend." Cold fingers gripped Shiro's chin, forcing him to look up into even colder brown eyes. "I, who keep you, teach you, feed you, dress you. I, who look upon you without fear. How can I protect you, boy, unless you always stay in here?" With his free hand, Aizen ran his fingers through silken ivory hair. He caught the glitter of defiance within golden eyes. "Away in here," he murmured, seemingly lost in thought.

Aizen released Shiro's face and took a small step back from his charge. "Remember what I've taught you, Shiro. You are deformed and you are ugly, and these are crimes for which the world shows little pity. You do not comprehend. I am your one defender." He pointed to the adjacent balcony. "Out there, they'll revile you as a monster. Out there, they will hate with scorn and jeer. Why invite their calumny and consternation?" The judge roughly grasped Shiro by the shoulder. The bell ringer gave no sign that the fingers were digging painfully in to his skin. "Stay in here. Be faithful to me, grateful to me. Do as I say. Obey and stay in here." Aizen let go of Shiro and moved back to the table, collecting his basket and items. He turned to leave when Shiro finally spoke.

"You are good to me, master," he muttered, scowl directed at the floor. ". . . I'm sorry."

Aizen didn't bother to turn around. "You are forgiven," he responded. "But remember, Shiro." He gestured lightly to the bell tower. "This is your sanctuary." His voice echoed slightly as he descended the steps and left the tower loft.

"Sanctuary," repeated Shiro, the word echoing in the stillness. He sighed and stared up at the bells above him, the iron shimmering with the morning sun that filtered into the tower. Safe behind the windows and the parapets of stone, every day for twenty years Shiro had gazed at the people down below him. He watched them go about their lives as he hid up in the bell tower alone, hungry and grasping for the histories they showed him. Shiro scoffed. "Sanctuary" and "safe" weren't the words he would have chosen. He returned to the chair and ate the bread and cheese Judge Aizen left behind in silence.

As he began to clear the table, Shiro paused at the sketches still brushed to the other half of the surface. The friendly faces of the townsfolk stared back at him, frozen in time at the moment Shiro captured them on paper. _All my life, I've memorized their faces, _he thought, _knowing them as they will never know me. _He glanced at the balcony and slowly edged closer until he was gazing over the wide railing once again. "I wonder," he whispered, his voice high yet smooth on the breeze. "I wonder how it feels to pass a day not above them, but part of them." He shook his head at the notion. Yet . . . The thought of living in the sun, breathing in fresh air, sounded wonderful. He couldn't deny it, not after living in the stale bell tower. _What I'd give just to live one day out there._

While the festival underwent construction, the Parisian people continued about their daily lives. Through the roofs and gables, Shiro could see the millers and the weavers and even their wives. He scowled as they went. Every day they would shout and scold, going about their lives heedless of the gift it was to be them while he was forced to live within the stone walls of his "sanctuary." White hands balled into fists along the railing. "If I was in their skin," he growled, "I'd treasure every instant."

Shiro was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't notice the three gargoyles watching him.

"Out there, I would stroll by the Seine and taste the morning. Revel in the clarity of the sun and sky. Freely walk about there like ordinary men. Just one day and then I swear!" Shiro brought his fists down on the smooth stone railing with a heavy _thump._ Gold-on-black eyes flashed wildly as a distorted shout rose to the sky. "I'll be content with my share! I won't resent, won't despair! If I'm old and bent, I won't care! I'll have spent one day out there!"

* * *

In the midst of the bustling activities of the town, a very frustrated man clad in golden armor stood beside his white mare at the intersection of several streets. Riotous bright blue hair was styled in a chaotic mess, some strands hanging over a furrowed brow as matching blue eyes glared at the outdated map in his hands. He turned it a few times, trying to make sense of it. Needless to say, Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was not happy.

"Heh, ya leave town for a couple of decades and they change everything," he grumbled aloud. Irritated, Grimmjow crumpled the map in his hands before tossing it over his shoulder. Azure eyes caught sight of two guards walking by.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he called out, remembering formalities. "I'm looking for the Palace of Justice. Would you . . ." his words trailed off to a growl as the guards passed by, completely ignoring him. "I guess not." Grimmjow pushed forward, attempting to suppress the rising anger that beckoned him to draw his sword from underneath his navy blue cloak and cleave the guards in half. He tugged on the mare's reins and pulled her along as he trudged through the streets, completely lost.

The faint sound of music drifted to Grimmjow's ears as he rounded a corner. He wasn't the only one who heard the enchanting melody apparently as he saw a young girl pulling on her mother's arm, trying to get closer to the source, but the woman stopped her daughter, dragging the girl away.

"Stay away, child – they're gypsies. They'll steal us blind."

Grimmjow frowned deeply. He'd never agreed to with the so-called "norms" of society, judging people by their appearances and lifestyles. The gypsies lived freely just as anyone should. Grimmjow reached into the small satchel under his cloak to retrieve a handful of coins that he tossed into a hat on the ground in front of the gypsies. Just as he was about to move on and continue his infuriating search, a patch of sunset orange caught his eye.

Leaning against the stone wall, a pan flute held up to pink lips, stood a gypsy boy with a head of shaggy tangerine hair that brushed over his neck. He wore a loose white shirt that hung off his shoulders and exposed his light golden skin. Purple pants clung to a slim waist and ended about his knees, revealing toned legs and a gold anklet that matched the bracelets on his wrists. A royal purple sash hemmed with gold thread and coins sat on his hips. Another glint of gold caught Grimmjow's eyes, a hoop earring in the gypsy's right ear. Fresh to adulthood, the gypsy boy was striking to say the least.

Next to him was a much younger gypsy girl with jade green scarf in her short light brown hair. Her matching green dress swirled about her as she smiled and danced to the boy's music, tapping on her tambourine. Her partner was a dark brown goat, prancing merrily at the girl's feet, a gold hoop earring in its right ear to match the boy.

Grimmjow stood entranced by the sight of the gypsy boy as he played. All other thoughts came to a screeching halt when a pair of swirling amber eyes met piercing ocean blue. A small smirk formed against the pan flute as the orange-haired gypsy continued to playfully stare at the soldier. Grimmjow's lips spread into a feral smile, and he took a step forward only to have the moment cut short by a sharp whistle.

His gaze rose to see another young gypsy girl with cropped black hair crouching high up on the stone wall. She gestured frantically to those below her and scrambled down from her post. The music stopped as the first girl let out a gasp. The three gypsies gathered their things and took off, trouble clearly on its way. The brown goat grabbed the hat full of coins but didn't get very far as the gold clattered to the cobblestone street.

The orange-haired gypsy slid to a stop while the girls ran onwards, rushing back to gather the change back into the hat. The next moment, two guards were upon him, one slender with long pale blonde hair, the other slightly taller with a thin black braid. The boy glared at their black boots as he began to rise.

"All right, gypsy, where'd you get the money?" the taller guard questioned condescendingly.

"For your information, I earned it," the orange-haired male answered in a melodic baritone that tugged on Grimmjow's heartstrings.

"Gypsies don't earn money."

"You steal it?" the blonde guard stepped behind the gypsy, securing his arms in a too-tight hold.

"You'd know a lot about stealing!" he snarled.

"Troublemaker!" The guard with the braid snatched one end of the hat but the orangette held fast.

"Maybe a day in the stocks will cool you down," declared the blond guard, trying to hold the gypsy back. Both guards seemed to forget the brown goat at their feet, for that statement caused the creature to bray angrily and headbutt the dark-haired guard in the stomach. The man let out an "oof!" and bent over, clutching his stomach. The gypsy took the opportunity to bring his leg up and kick the guard in the face, catching his chin. As the first guard fell to the ground, the orange-haired boy ripped his arm from the blonde guard's grasp and successfully landed a well-placed elbow to his gut despite the thick metal armor the man wore, and the hands gripping the boy's arms released their hold. He then took off running as fast as his bare feet could carry him, tearing past Grimmjow as he escaped.

The two guards recovered quickly and gave chase after their target. Grimmjow scowled and quickly pulled his mare by her reins so that she stood directly in the path of the guards. The blonde guard ran completely into the horse and was knocked backwards, while his dark-haired companion clipped the end of the animal and was sent spinning to the ground, landing face first into a puddle on the street. A wicked grin crossed Grimmjow's handsome face.

"Pantera! Sit!"

The horse immediately obeyed, dropping heavily on to the guard behind her. The man let out a pained groan as the immense weight nearly crushed him.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry," Grimmjow said feigning the apology, his smile still playing at his lips. "Naughty horse, naughty!" he said shaking a finger at the mare. He leaned casually on his sitting steed. "She's just impossible. Really, I can't take her anywhere."

"Get this thing _off me_!" the crushed guard cried out.

"I'll teach you a lesson, _peasant_!" the blonde guard growled, whipping out a short sword. Grimmjow scoffed, reaching under his cloak to unsheathe his sharp longsword, pointing it at the blonde.

"You were saying . . . Lieutenant?"

The guard's eyes widened in shock and he hastily straightened, giving a salute to the blue-haired man. "Oh, C-captain! At your service, sir!"

Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the behavior. He brought his sword dangerously close to the neck of the crushed guard, kneeling next to the fallen man. "I know you have a lot on your mind right now, but . . ." His smirked. "The Palace of Justice?"

It took little convincing for the guards to agree. The men were soon clearing a path through the city's streets, shouting for the people to make way for the captain. After a moment, Grimmjow paused, bending down to pick up a few golden coins off the cobblestone street. As he passed an old beggar wrapped in a hooded cloak, he dropped the coins into a familiar-looking hat placed in front of him. When he continued, he was all too aware of the hood being pulled back to reveal the face of a curious brown goat and a lovely orange-haired male staring in disbelief.

* * *

The Palace of Justice was a looming figure over the city of Paris, rivaling Notre Dame herself and full of wicked turrets with spiked roofs. Grimmjow was lead past the front entrance and into a hallway completely made of stone by the two guards, who stopped before a heavy wooden door. Brow furrowed in concentration, Grimmjow pushed the door open with one hand. He stepped into the prison corridor lined with torches and saw a figure dressed in the black robes of a city official in the dim lighting. The sounds of repetitive lashes echoed throughout the small space, but didn't faze Grimmjow as he strode forward to the figure: Judge Sōsuke Aizen.

"Stop," Aizen said, and a man dressed in a dark hooded outfit appeared through the doorway the judge stood before, holding a cat o' nine tails over his shoulder.

"Sir?"

"Ease up. Wait between lashes," the judge suggested. "Otherwise the older sting will dull him to the new."

"Yes, sir," the other man replied with a cruel smirk before returning to the room. It was then Aizen noticed the new arrival and turned to the blue-haired man with a lukewarm smile.

"Ah, so this is the gallant Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, home from the wars," Aizen said, bringing his ringed fingers together in front of him.

Grimmjow's eyebrow twitched in slight irritation even as he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. "Reporting for duty, as ordered, sir."

"Your service record precedes you, Grimmjow," Aizen said, circling the other. "I expect nothing but the best from a war hero of your caliber."

"And you shall have it, sir," Grimmjow replied, the hints of smirk pulling at his lips. "I guarantee it."

"Yes," Aizen spared a glance at the doorway. "You know, my last Captain of Guard was a bit of a disappointment to me."

A whip's brutal crack sounded throughout the corridor, followed by the anguished cry of the unseen prisoner. A sadistic smile formed on Aizen's face as his brown eyes sparkled cruelly.

"No matter," he said casually. "I'm sure you'll _whip_ my men into shape."

"Thank you, sir," Grimmjow said, unfazed. "It's a tremendous honor, sir."

The judge's lukewarm smile returned as he lead the two of them down the corridor and out on to an enclosed balcony overlooking the city. "You come to Paris in her darkest hour, Captain. It will take a firm hand to save the weak-minded from being so easily misled."

"Misled, sir?"

Aizen paused and gestured to the busy Parisian streets with his hand where a familiar pair of gypsies played. "Look, Captain – gypsies," he said. "The gypsies live outside the normal order. Their heathen ways inflame the peoples' lowest instincts, and they must be stopped."

"I was summoned from the wars to capture fortune tellers and palm readers?" Grimmjow asked, frowning.

"Oh, the real war, Captain, is what you see before you." Aizen said, his hand brushing against the stone railing before them. Three ants scurried across the surface. "For twenty years, I have been taking care of the gypsies, one . . . by . . . one." On each of the last three words, Aizen crushed the defenseless insects with his fingers. "And yet, for all of my success, they have thrived." He then lifted a large stone tile from the railing, revealing scores of ants scurrying around underneath. "I believe they have a safe haven, within the walls of this very city. A nest, if you will. They call it the 'Court of Miracles,'" he scoffed lightly at the name.

"What are we going to do about it, sir?" Grimmjow asked, his frown deepening and darkening his azure orbs.

Aizen's mouth twitched a fraction before he slammed the stone tile back down, effectively crushing the colony of ants.

"You make your point quite vividly, sir."

"You know, I like you, Captain," the judge said, laying a hand on Grimmjow's shoulder. "Shall we?" Before the bluenette could respond, loud cheers erupted from the throng of people below them.

"Oh, duty calls." The judge began to leave and asked, turning, "Have you ever attended a peasant festival, Captain?"

"Not recently, sir."

"Then this should be quite the education for you. Come along." Judge Aizen continued to walk down the balcony with the newly appointed Captain of Guard following behind, shaking his head. _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

**Alright. So whadda you think? Lemme know, please?**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**I got to thinking - there's quite a bit of characters I've left unidentified. Up to a challenge? Can you name any of them?**

**- Opening Gypsy (with the puppet)**

**- Archdeacon**

**- Gypsy with the pan flute (although, I should hope you recognize him)**

**- Young gypsy girls**

**- Two guards**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**Make sure to check out "The Highwayman" written by Lily McKenzie! You can find it located on our profile! R + R**


	4. Topsy Turvy

***peeks out from hiding place* Is it safe to come out? I'm not going to be stone, am I?**

**Sorry for the long wait. RL has been extremely busy lately; I've ****had so many papers due -_- But, never fear! Here is the newest chapter for _Sing The Bells_! **

**I took a lot of your comments into consideration while writing this, using only distinct lines of song and adding in my own scenes. Heehee, that part's gonna be good :3**

**Enjoy the latest - and longest so far! - installment of STB!**

**EDIT: I've changed Ichigo's scene due to some similarity issues. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Topsy Turvy**

* * *

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

Shiro crouched at the base of one of many large statues lining the exterior walls of Notre Dame. A black cloak covered most of his upper body, and the hood completely shrouded Shiro's face within its shadow. Despite the _lovely_ visit form Judge Aizen, Shiro decided it was worth the risk venturing down to the festival. He knew the people would never accept him, just as Aizen said, would never look at him without fear or disgust. But no matter how discouraging, he still ached to experience one day out there, free from the stone confines of the cathedral. And so, here he sat watching a procession of people dressed in dark robes enter the square, holding banners and chanting in song, his snowy head cocked to the side in curiosity.

Shiro then took the final leap from where he knelt, landing steadily in the middle of the very large, very animated crowd of peasants just in time to catch the end of the procession's chant.

"Come and join the Feast . . . of . . ."

"Fools!"

A gypsy dressed in a jester outfit bedecked in purple and golden yellow burst from behind the cloaked figures. Cheers filled the air at the sight of the festival's master of ceremonies. Almost instantly, paper confetti seemed to drift down from the sky at his appearance, little colored strips raining down over the entire city square. More banners began to unfurl, bathing the very air with vibrant hues. The seven cloaked figures tore off their disguises, revealing gypsies dressed just as colorful as the jester that stood before them. Even with their features hidden behind masks Shiro could see the gypsies' eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief. The jester let out a laugh as he gathered the celebrating people's attention and hopped on a makeshift stage set up in the square.

From the higher position, Shiro could make out ochre eyes behind the violet mask and blonde hair that reached down to the man's chin underneath a blue hat. A wide piano-tooth smile spread across the gypsy's face. The bells attached to his outfit jingled as he bounced about on the stage.

"Once a year we throw a party here in town!" the gypsy announced to the gathering crowds. The people hushed a small fraction to hear the man speak. "It's that same time of year we turn all of Paris upside down!" Brief shouts of excitement cut the man off. The blonde gypsy chuckled. "It's the day the devil in us gets released, where everyone is acting crazy and no one is safe from our mischief and fun. Every man's a king, and every king's a clown." At the last statement, the blonde quickly glanced over his shoulder to his gypsy companions now joining him on stage. With arms spread in the air, he declared, "Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy yourselves for once again it's topsy turvy day at the Feast of Fools!"

The atmosphere around Shiro hummed with excitement as the people cheered long and loud for the opening of the festivities. The people already began to mill about, dancing and swaying together, some already drunk from beer and wine, as music and song lifted into the air. Just before Shiro stepped away, eyes of gold met honey brown, the impossibly wide grin nearly splitting his face. Eyes widened under a pale furrowed brow. _What the hell?_ The blonde gypsy watched the dark hooded figure blend into the crowd as he hastily turned away.

Shiro tugged on the edges of his hood, millions of questions swarming his mind. _Why the hell was he staring at me like that? Did he recognize me? How could he? And what was with that creepy ass grin? _Suddenly, he collided into something solid, sending him back a step and forcing him to look up. "Sor . . . ry . . ." The apology died on his lips at the sight before him.

The man easily stood over Shiro, well-built and muscled based on the way he felt when the bell ringer walked into him. The man's tunic, covered in a few dirty smudges, fit close to his body, confirming Shiro's suspicion. A long red braid draped over his shoulder. Russet eyes flicked over Shiro curiously as a black brow quirked up. _Wait a minute. Black? _Shiro thought. _Are those . . . tattoos? _Indeed, black lines both curved and jagged ran across the man's skin. Inverted eyes followed the dark ink, beginning above the man's eyes and tracing down his strong arms. Shiro even caught a glimpse of a few peeking out from beneath his shirt's low collar.

There was a light cough as the redhead cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"

The albino snapped out of his daze at the sound. Shiro turned his head away as gold eyes attempted to find something else to look at. A light blush warmed his cheeks as he scowled at nothing in particular. He hadn't meant to stare; he didn't even realize he'd been doing it. He just couldn't help it . . .

"Sorry," Shiro snapped harshly. With a spin, he began to weave back into the dense crowd, the light burn of his embarrassment still present on his cheeks, this time careful as to where he walked.

* * *

After his encounter with the redhead, Shiro's sour mood easily melted away as he pushed through the lively crowds. It was a bit unnerving, being around so many other people when he'd spent the entirety of his life isolated from society like his gargoyle companions. Nevertheless, Shiro straightened as he made his way through the hordes of people.

Everywhere he looked there was something new and exciting brightly dressed in color. Confetti continued to swirl about in the air and on the ground, creating little clouds of paper. The music grew louder with each passing moment as more and more Parisians indulged in frothy mugs of the city's best ale, their drunken stupor allowing for a most intriguing interpretation on singing.

Those not partaking in alcohol and chasing after the barmaids that served them milled about the different tents, straining to see what they had to offer. Several areas were dedicated to arts and music with paintings on display while professionals and amateurs alike performed catchy tunes. Sections displayed the craftsmanship of the townspeople through exhibits such as quilting and wood-carving. Just as Dondochakka has said, Shiro was able to sample several types of food, the meager meals Judge Aizen served paling in comparison to the bursting new flavors that danced on his tongue.

The festival swarmed with gypsies dressed in extravagant costumes as they performed their trades – jugglers and acrobats, dancers and musicians – as well as providing the growing crowd with scores of entertainment from their mischievous antics. Shiro noticed a fortune teller peering into her crystal ball and, intrigued, he pushed forward to have a closer look.

Even as he stepped closer, he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, a telltale sign that someone was watching him.

Whipping his head around, Shiro caught sight of the same gypsy jester from the beginning of the festivities. Scowling, he saw the man watching him closely with the same wide grin, sly eyes glinting behind his purple mask. For the second time that day, Shiro really didn't like how he was looking at him.

The gypsy suddenly darted forward, dodging the drunken celebrators, and Shiro's inverted eyes widened. Spinning around, the bell ringer began to flee, weaving in and out of the dense crowd. He didn't understand why this gypsy, the master of ceremonies at the Feast of Fools, took such an interest in him and was now following him, and he certainly didn't intend on finding out. However, Shiro made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder to if the gypsy was still behind him.

In the next moment he collided with the canvas of a scarlet tent, tripping into the once pinned entrance and falling heavily onto his hands and knees.

"Hey!" a shocked voice cried, definitely male from the smooth baritone. Shiro looked in startled alarm for the source of the voice to see a man his own age hastily pulling a shirt over his bare chest. Shiro froze at the sight before him, a vision that left the view of the sunset from Notre Dame's highest turret in the dust.

The boy, clearly a gypsy from the gold hoop in his right ear, had hair of fire and warm cocoa brown eyes, his skin the lightest gold with faintest trace of freckles over the bridge of his nose. When surprise faded into concern, Shiro was left breathless.

"Are you alright?" the gypsy boy said, reaching out to the man on the ground. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm fine!" Shiro protested, attempting to back away and disentangle himself from his cloak. The orangette rolled his eyes and grasped the edge of the man's hood, tossing it back to reveal porcelain white features and gold on black eyes that should have left any average Parisian screaming in terror. Shiro braced himself for the inevitable reaction.

"There. See, no harm done. Just try to be a little more careful."

The gypsy boy then pulled the other to his feet, giving a small, kind smile to the gaping Shiro.

"Yeah, sure," the bell ringer exhaled, nodding. With a light tug on his arm, the gypsy guided Shiro back to the entrance. Even as he stepped back into the square, they gypsy's voice called out to him again.

"By the way, great mask."

Shiro watched dumbly as the tent fluttered close and the orange-haired boy disappeared behind it. It wasn't until a small commotion behind him caught his attention that he looked away from the gypsy's tent.

The sound turned out to be the grumblings of the peasants seeing the infamous Judge Sōsuke Aizen ascent to his official tent for the festival decorated in red and black, connected to the main stage by a long narrow strip. Sitting in a chair that rivaled the royal throne, the brown-haired man gave a careless wave to the people below as his guards surrounded the tent on horses. At once, Shiro's daze sharpened into a vexing glare but he made sure to melt into the crowd, not even wanting to think of the consequences should his caretaker see that he'd disobeyed his orders and attended the festival anyway.

"Come one! Come all!"

The call came from the judge's tent as the blonde gypsy appeared from behind the man's glorified chair. The gypsy daringly placed on hand on the judge's shoulder and sprinkled him with confetti. "Hurry, hurry, here's your chance to see the mystery and romance!" The gypsy danced away with a wink, leaving Aizen in disgust as he brushed off the offending pieces of paper.

"Come one! Come all!" he exclaimed again, holding his hands in the air, gesturing for people to gather closer around the stage. "See the finest treasure in all of France!"

Curious, Shiro crept closer until he was at the very edge of the stage, looking directly up at the blonde gypsy. With a clenched fist raised in the air, the man practically sang, "Dance, _la fraise_ . . . Dance!" Throwing down his fist, the gypsy disappeared in a cloud of fuchsia smoke and in his place stood the same orange-haired boy whose tent Shiro had fallen into just moments before. Only now he was dressed in an outfit of scarlet and violet with an aubergine sash embroidered with golden suns around his hips, the cloth clinging tightly to the boy's figure.

The audience gasped in delight as the gypsy spared not a second before twisting his lithe body in a series of spins, moving his body in a sensual sway. The peasants looked on in innocence, but three sets of eyes saw the dance for what it truly was: an erotic spectacle, sexual in every way.

"Look at that disgusting display," Judge Aizen said to his blue-haired captain who sat on his white mare beside the tent. Although his words sounded with distaste, usually empty brown eyes now glittered with a barely restrained desire.

Grimmjow raised the visor on his golden helmet, sapphire eyes drinking in the lustful sight before him. "Yes, sir," the blunette said with a wicked grin, enthralled with the vision of lovely orange as he coyly tugged at the pretty sash around his hips, hands fluttering across his body in sensual touches enough to reveal toned abdomen.

The gypsy boy twirled the sash in the air around him as he lightly bounded across the stage towards Aizen's tent. With a kick into the air, he landed on the arm of the official's chair and practically in the man's lap with a seductive smile. Half-lidded amber eyes glittered as the boy wrapped that aubergine scarf around Aizen's neck, playfully pulling him closer and running a finger along his jaw, watching the man's normally severe composure crack in surprise. Their faces were barely inches away from each other when the orangette jumped away at the last moment and slapped Aizen's hat down over his face. The city official righted his hat with a rare yet vicious snarl and furiously ripped the scarf from his neck, clutching the thing in a tight grasp.

Shiro, meanwhile, watched spellbound by the gypsy's provocative performance, the orangette gracefully falling into a perfect split. Conveniently, the boy landed directly in front of where Shiro stood; when golden eyes looked up to meet soft brown, the gypsy gave Shiro a wink that sent the albino's heart for a spin.

Springing to his feet, the gypsy boy snatched a spear from an entranced guard nearby and embedded the metal tip in the stage. The orangette lifted himself into the air, spinning around the makeshift pole and wrapping one around the base with the other held high against the shaft. The audience whistled and clapped – some peasant girls even crying out to him – as the gypsy boy stood, bowing now that his performance had reached its inevitable end. It rained shining golden coins on the stage, a certain captain's gilder among them, and the blonde gyspy jester reappeared on stage once more.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the _piece de resistnace_! Here it is, the moment you've been waiting for!" he declared. "Now's the time we crown the King of Fools!"

The crowd cheered loudly, applause ringing through the air like thunder.

"You all remember last year's king!?" The jester motioned to a man – were they sure it was a man? – that stood on an adjacent stage. Tall and bulky with the most outrageous purple hair and bushy eyebrows, the man scoffed at the crowd around him. "You never get it right. I'm the _Princess _of Fools, the most beautiful being in all of creation!" The crowd burst into hysterics before the blonde gypsy stated the rules.

"So, make a face that's horrible and frightening, for the face that's the ugliest, most monstrous, will be the King of Fools! Ugly folks, forget you shyness! Put your foulest features on display and become the king of our topsy turvy day!" A handful of men dressed in costume clambered onto the stage and began to form a line beside the blonde gypsy. Shiro, having no interest in the event, was about to back away when the beautiful gypsy boy appeared above him on stage, a hand outstretched toward him. As if in a trance, Shiro made no effort to get away as the other pulled him up on stage, his dark cloak falling away.

Now that all the contestants were all lined up in a row on the stage, Shiro at the opposite edge, the white-haired man saw a brown goat prance up to the orangette's side, quirking a brow upon seeing it had its right ear pierced to match the boy.

The two gypsies went up to the first in line, the orange-haired one pulling off the man's mask to reveal an average man making a silly face. Boos sounded from the audience and the goat didn't hesitate to head butt the man from behind and send him off the stage to the hard cobblestone ground. This continued down the line until the gypsies reached Shiro, who began to back away from the orange-haired boy's outstretched hands but found himself unable to move when he felt smooth fingertips brush along his jawline.

However, when the gypsy tried to remove what he thought was a mask and realized the milky white skin wouldn't budge, his eyes widened and mouth fell open in a silent gasp. Shiro felt his heart drop as shocked cries went through the crowd.

"That's no mask!"

"That's his face!"

"He's hideous!"

"It's the bell ringer from Notre Dame!"

Shiro watched as the people's faces shifted from shocked to terrified before him, and he chanced a glance over to where Judge Aizen sat in his tent, the man's features sharpened in a minute glare, and a chill ran over his porcelain skin with a shudder that made him visibly shake. Shiro began to back away from the stage, angry and disgusted with himself and the people's words.

"Ladies and gentlemen, don't panic," the gypsy jester suddenly called out to the crowd from beside Shiro, who belatedly realized the orange-haired gymnast and the goat had disappeared. "We asked for the ugliest and most monstrous face in all of Paris, and here he is – Shiro, the bell ringer of Notre Dame!"

The peasants' expressions twisted in confusion for a few moments as they tried to figure out what the master of ceremonies meant before delighted smiles and cheers finally broke out everywhere and they burst into applause. The blonde gypsy produced the crown for the King of Fools, a plush combination of an actual crown and a jester's hat, and promptly placed the thing on Shiro's pure white head of hair. Having no desire to be crowned king for his disgusting looks, Shiro reached up to rip the crown off his head but he was stopped short as several pairs of hands grabbed him from the stage and lifted him into the air above the crowd, the peasants cheering and singing for their new king.

"Hey, put me down!" he demanded, but they didn't hear him, transporting him to the smaller stage where the old king still stood. With a kick, the blonde gypsy sent the old king flying just as the crowd nearly threw Shiro onto the platform. Before he could right himself, the gypsy threw a crimson cape over the albino's shoulders and thrust a scepter into his hand. Even as the audience clapped and cheered, Shiro's patience ran out and he finally ripped the ridiculous crown from his head, sending a startled gasp throughout the crowd, sneering at the people's reaction.

"He's gone mad!"

"Somebody do something!"

Suddenly, a thick rope swung in the air, the lasso whirling towards the albino on stage. Shiro didn't manage to notice it until it was too late, and the circle of rope passed over his head to enclose around his alabaster neck. Pulling tight on the line, the frightened peasants toppled the bell ringer, Shiro crashing to the wooden stage, both of his hands going up to try and loosen the rope's hold on his throat. However, other onlookers caught on to the idea and another lassoed rope caught Shiro's left wrist in a cruel grip.

Snarling, Shiro summoned the strength he'd gained from years of ringing the colossal bells of Notre Dame and pulled back on the ropes, the people on the opposite ends skidding forward on the cobblestone street. Shiro's tunic ripped from the force as he attempted to stand and tore at the ropes before more flew out to snare the white-haired man, pinning him once again to the platform.

Struggling on the platform, Shiro was defenseless when a soldier called out, "You think he's ugly now? Watch this!"

With that, the guard threw a tomato at the pinned albino, hitting him square in the face. "Now that's ugly!"

"Hail to the king!" another guard shouted mockingly, throwing another tomato. Soon, Shiro was pelted with produce of all kinds, the peasants now joining the torment and all laughing at his expense.

At the sight out outright torture, Grimmjow – who normally didn't give a damn about other people – had enough of the onslaught upon the poor soul restricted by the tight ropes. Itching to spur Pantera forward, he called out, "Sir, request permission to stop this cruelty."

"In just a moment, Captain," Aizen's moderate voice replied from behind him. "A lesson needs to be learned here."

The snappish retort Grimmjow prepared as answer for the judge's remark died on his tongue as the crowd suddenly went quiet. Snapping his attention back in the direction of the albino, a sense of dread washing over him, Grimmjow's sky blue brows rose to his hairline upon seeing what had caused everyone to fall still and silent.

Ascending the stairs to the platform, the orange-haired gypsy, now dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing when Grimmjow first saw him that morning, slowly approached the albino roped to the stage. The sunlight glittered in the bright tangerine of his hair to make it appear as if he wore a halo much like the saints and angels that decorated Notre Dame. He gazed down at the trapped Shiro with pity and sadness clouding his normally bright caramel eyes, the latter torn between fear and anger as his breath came in pained pants.

Unsure, Shiro growled at the other when he knelt down beside the bell ringer.

"Don't be afraid," the orangette whispered softly. He carefully untied the deep purple sash from his waist and made to move closer when Shiro flinched. The boy sighed and gently began to wipe Shiro's face of tomato. "I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"You, gypsy boy! Get down at once," Aizen said, his quiet voice still managing to travel over to the platform several yards away. Said gypsy boy looked over to Judge Aizen as he re-tied his sash.

"Yes, your honor," he replied, voice strong. "Just as soon as I free this poor creature."

"I forbid it."

The boy's rich brown eyes hardened in defiance as he withdrew a knife and daringly ran through the ropes binding Shiro in one swift movement. He grabbed the white-haired male by the forearm and brought him to his feet as the crowd gasped at his boldness.

"How dare you defy me." A delicate frown marred the judge's features.

"You mistreat this boy the same way you mistreat my people. You speak of justice, yet you are cruel to those most in need of your help," he orangette proclaimed, gesturing to the albino behind him.

"Silence!" Aizen demanded.

"JUSTICE!" the boy declared, raising a fist in the air.

"Mark my words, gypsy," Aizen's voice grew dangerously low as he pointed a ringed finger at the platform. "You will pay for this insolence." The gypsy, however, ignored the gesture, a mischievous smile pulling at his lips.

"Then it appears we've crowned the wrong fool," he said with a mock bow and picked up the plush crown Shiro had discarded before throwing it in the judge's direction, the absurd thing landing at the man's feet. "The only fool I see is _you_!"

"Guards. Arrest him."

A group of soldiers swarmed the platform on horseback, and Shiro made to step in front of his orange-haired protector when the boy placed a reassuring hand on his arm. Puzzled, Shiro watched as the gypsy stepped closer to the edge of the stage to count the number of guards.

"Now, let's see. There's ten of you, and one of me. What ever will I do?" The orangette smirked and, mimicking what the blonde jester had done earlier, threw his fist to the ground and disappeared in a cloud of fuchsia smoke.

"Witchcraft," whispered Aizen, the small frown still tugging on his features.

The guards were dumbfounded by the gypsy boy's disappearance, looking around wildly for that bright shock of tangerine hair.

"Oh, boys! Over here!" sang the smooth baritone. The guards turned to see the gypsy sitting among a pile of discarded masks making a ridiculous face at the soldiers that pursued him, now joined by his pet goat. Two soldiers on foot rushed to where to gypsy stood, but the boy took off running, his goat following close behind. He ran across the stage and jumped off the edge and into the hands of the crowd, carrying them quickly away to safety. The two guards attempted to do the same, leaping off the stage, but the crowd quickly parted to let the men crash painfully to the ground.

The three remaining foot soldiers circled the stage as the gypsy and his goat were placed safely on the ground. Placing his hands on his hips, the gypsy watched in amusement as the three guards approached only to be knocked to the ground by his goat. He then plucked a circular helmet from one of the fallen soldiers, using it like a discus to fling at the three soldiers approaching on horseback. The flying helmet collided with all three men, knocking them off their mounts, before flying directly over Grimmjow's ducked head to embed itself in the wooden beam behind him. An amused smile broke out on his handsome face, cobalt eyes sparkling with bemusement.

"Impressive," Grimmjow said to himself.

Meanwhile, the gypsy boy and his pet were still fleeing from the final two soldiers pursuing them. He somehow had managed to locate a long pole which he now used to catapult himself to the top of Aizen's tent. Pole still in hand, he whistled down to the incoming guards and dropped the pole, landing perfectly in their laps. Unable to stop their charge, the soldiers and the newly acquired pole sliced through Aizen's tent, sending the official diving for cover.

The gypsy boy performed a perfect tumble onto the stage just as the tent collapsed. A disgusted Judge Aizen rose from the shambles of his tent in time to see the gypsy give one last mischievous smile and bow before scooping up his pet goat and wrapping himself in an aubergine cloak, disappearing as the cloth fell empty to the stage.

Across the mass of people, Shiro awoke from his daze after watching the escapade to remind him he still stood on the platform and that all eyes now turned towards him. Furious brown eyes glinted as Judge Aizen glared at the bell ringer from across the square, the sky instantly darkening as if the official's internal fury called upon a storm.

The judge's black stallion was brought forth, and as he mounted it Aizen practically hissed to the blue-haired man in gold armor beside him. "Find that boy, Captain. I want him alive." Grimmjow frowned but voiced no protest as he turned to what remained of his battered soldiers.

"Seal off the area, men. Find the gypsy boy, and do _not_ harm him!" he said, watching as the soldiers pushed through the remaining crowd of peasants as a steady rain began to fall.

Judge Aizen guided his steed to the platform where Shiro still stood, coated in a combination of food debris and water. The irate, condescending glare the albino received was enough to make Shiro bow his head and grit his teeth, his lilting voice brittle, as he said, "I'm sorry, master. I will never disobey you again."

With that, Shiro jumped down from the platform, the peasants moving aside in fright as he half-limped to the cathedral doors. Without a second glance back at his shattered freedom, Shiro closed the heavy wooden doors behind him.

* * *

Several minutes had passed since the gypsy boy's escape from the festival and the rain poured down heavily onto the cobblestone streets, but the search still continued. The Feast of Fools ended with a climax the townspeople were sure to never forget, many now huddled within the comfort of their own homes. From his view atop Pantera, Grimmjow glanced about the square, flashing blue eyes spotting a hunched over beggar in a navy cloak hobbling into the cathedral entrance.

"Hmmm . . ." he mused, stroking his clean-shaven chin with a gloved hand. That beggar looked awfully familiar . . .

* * *

**Weeeeeell . . . ? How'd I do? Let me know what you think, please?**

**EDIT: Since the changes of Ichigo's scene, the dance our tricky berry performs is most definitely something _extra_. **

**Did anyone recognize our newest indirect characters? ;D**

**Here's the tally for those of you who guessed on the last chapters' "mystery characters:"**

**- **Kleny GingerHead: 5 correct

- Monkey D. Writer: 1 correct

**Feel free to continue guessing on the characters if you get any more ideas!**

**Well, I'm off! Night! (Well . . . technically it's morning here, so . . . whatever.)**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**I almost forgot to mention! Since this fic is rated T, I won't be writing anything explicit in the plot. However, if throughout the story you feel there's an instance where you'd like to see some type of scene play out, I gladly encourage you to make a request. I plan on taking those "what-if" scenes and making them into one-shots, purely lemon if that's what you wish. I simply ask that maybe you wait a little while longer into the plot before you make your requests, just to make sure there isn't anything that will . . . "disappoint" you.**

******XXXXXXXXXX**

**Make sure to check out "The Highwayman" written by Lily McKenzie! You can find it located on our profile! R + R**


End file.
